THE HEART'S DEAD ARE NEVER BURIED.
When you're away, I'm restless, lonely, wretched, bored, dejected; only here's the rub, my darling dear, I feel the same when you're near.
Babies haven't any hair; Old men's heads are just as bare; between the cradle and the grave lie a haircut and a shave.
My soul is dark with stormy riot: directly traced over to diet.
I burned my candle at both ends, And now have neither foes nor friends.
What a lucky thing the wheel was invented before the automobile; otherwise can you imagine the awful screeching?